Dark Blood lm-6

by Stuart MacBride

  11

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Logan had one last bash at getting a cigarette out of the packet, then gave up. ‘Can you…?’

  Steel shifted down and the Fiat whined around the outside of a massive tractor hauling a trailer full of cattle down the dual carriageway. ‘You’re like a wee kid.’ She took the pack from his slippery plastic-bagged hands, tapped one out against the steering wheel, stuck it between her teeth, and lit it with the car’s cigarette lighter. The edges of her scarlet lips cracked out like spider veins as she sooked. Then she held it out — a bright-red print on the filter — so Logan could sit forwards and pluck it from between her fingers with his mouth.

  It tasted of burning perfume and Vaseline.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Steel went back to squinting into the rain, windscreen wipers squealing and groaning across the pockmarked glass. ‘Either Polmont’s buggered off, or he’s dead.’

  ‘And if he was stealing electrical supplies from Malk the Knife, doesn’t matter where he runs to. Sooner or later…’

  ‘Silly bugger.’

  ‘You know,’ Logan tried to take the cigarette out of his mouth to tap the ash off, but couldn’t work the clear plastic bags into a position that wouldn’t burn a hole in them, ‘if you were going to kill someone for nicking your electrical wiring, there’s plenty of places to bury the body on a building site: mechanical diggers, concrete…’

  ‘Aye.’ Steel reached over and took the fag from Logan’s mouth, flicked the ash out of the open window, took a sneaky puff, then stuck it back between his lips. ‘Get onto Strathclyde when we get back, tell them I want a cadaver dog up here first thing tomorrow morning. And don’t take any crap. Rotten Weegie bastards never want to travel north of Perth. Better get the Time Team organized too: ground-penetrating radar, trowels, beards and silly hats. You know the drill.’

  ‘Warrants? Budget?’

  Steel pulled her mouth into a thin line. ‘You do your bit, I’ll sweet talk Finnie. Worst comes to worst I’ll go rummaging through his trouser pockets.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Logan nodded. ‘That’s the kind of threat that’ll make him cooperate.’

  ‘Still say this is a bad idea…’

  ‘Just shut up and keep an eye out.’ DI Steel squatted in front of the dark-blue door and peered in through the letterbox. It was a nondescript tenement building in Northfield, three stories of damp grey granite with six flats arranged either side of a central stairwell.

  Logan leant on the balustrade, the plastic bags on his hands crinkling as he peered down from the top floor. ‘We need to get back to the station before the samples deteriorate. And you know what else we need?’

  Steel stuck her hand through the letterbox, then her wrist, then as much of her arm as she could, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. ‘You to shut up?’

  ‘A warrant. We need a warrant.’

  They’d got the address on the way back into town, Steel telling Control to do a reverse lookup on the telephone number they’d got from Steve Polmont’s mobile.

  ‘Come on you wee bugger…’ She had her face flat against the door now, teeth clenched, one eye squinted shut. ‘Shitebags.’ She slumped. ‘Can’t reach.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Good, now we can go get a warrant, and come back and do it properly.’

  Steel wriggled her arm free. ‘Don’t need a bloody warrant. Polmont could be in there, dying right now.’

  ‘But-’

  She stuck a finger to her lips and shushed him. ‘Did you hear that? Someone crying for help?’

  ‘God, you are such a cliche.’

  Steel stood, took two steps back, then slammed her high-heeled boot into the door, by the lock. She hopped away, swearing and clutching her ankle. The door hadn’t even moved. She crumpled against the wall, wobbling on one leg. ‘Well, don’t just bloody stand there!’

  Sigh. Logan squared up to the lock, raised his damp, mud-spattered foot, and kicked. The door juddered. On the second go it flew open in a burst of splintered wood. ‘Happy now?’

  Steel limped forward as the front door to the next flat burst open. A man in a tatty blue dressing gown lurched out onto the landing, brandishing a massive monkey wrench. Hair flat on one side, sticking up on the other.

  ‘Right, you little bastards…’ He staggered to a halt. Stared at Logan and Steel. Then at the kicked-in door. Backed up a step.

  The inspector jerked a thumb at Polmont’s flat. ‘When did you last see the guy who lives here?’

  He let the arm clutching the wrench fall to his side. ‘I work nights.’ He shuffled backwards until he was inside his own flat. ‘Try to keep the noise down, yeah?’ And closed the door.

  ‘So much for Neighbourhood Watch.’ She hobbled past Logan into Steve Polmont’s home.

  It looked like the kind of place that got rented out fully furnished, which meant a random collection of shabby furniture and mismatched crockery scrounged up from second-hand shops. No paintings or pictures on the walls. Carpets that hadn’t seen a hoover since the turn of the century. Just about bearable if you were going to be working on a building site for the next year and a bit.

  The lounge and kitchen were two halves of the same room, filled with a sharp, rancid smell. Two clothes horses sat in the middle of the carpet, covered in socks and pants, a pair of jeans, and a threadbare checked shirt.

  Empty whisky bottles stood guard along the kitchen work surfaces, a regiment of empty Grant’s vodka bottles on the greasy windowsill.

  A dirty bowl sat on the little kitchen table with the pale pink husks of shrivelled Rice Crispies clinging to the edge, a half-full bottle of Bell’s sitting next to it.

  The breakfast of champions.

  Logan fumbled the fridge door open with his plastic-bagged hands. A couple of microwave ready meals, a carton of milk past its sell-by date, a block of cheddar going green and hairy. ‘Polmont’s not here.’

  ‘Shut up and help me look for clues.’ She limped back down the corridor. The first door opened on a small bathroom thick with the bitter tang of old sick. Next was a bedroom, with an unmade double bed, an overflowing ashtray, a tub of hand cream, and a copy of Butt-Mania magazine — a couple of used tissues lying by the side of the bed.

  A little boxroom lay behind door number three. And it was actually full of boxes: iPods, hair straighteners, cartons of cigarettes, portable DVD players, drums of electrical cable, strange rectangular things with wires sticking out of them, a couple of fuse boxes…

  Steel gave a low, breathy whistle. ‘Must be, what: three, four grands’ worth in here?’

  Logan nudged a large brown cardboard box with his foot. It clinked. ‘What about this lot?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Open it.’

  He held up his bagged hands. ‘How? You wouldn’t let me go back to the station.’

  ‘God’s sake, got to do everything myself…’ She ripped the top flap back and hauled out a bottle of Grant’s vodka, just like the ones in the kitchen, only full. Another three boxes were stacked underneath the window. Steel checked — more vodka. ‘What do you think, nicked?’

  Logan nodded at a dozen multipacks of Durex condoms. ‘That or he was planning one hell of a weekend.’

  Steel peered into another box. ‘Journals.’ She dumped one on top of a crate of rolling tobacco and flipped it open. The pages were creased and grubby, covered in a dense web of dark-blue biro. She peered at it, then backed off, and tried again, one eye squinted shut. ‘Bloody handwriting’s appalling.’

  Logan looked over her shoulder. ‘Get your eyes tested.’

  ‘I don’t need glasses.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  To be fair, Steve Polmont’s writing was appalling. The letters all ran together with lots of crossings out and scribbled annotations. ‘Listen to this: “G and Y went on the rampage today — found out someone’s been helping themselves to the shipments. Saw A give J a kicking for it. Have to lay off for a while.” It’s dated Sunday.’

  ‘Wha
t else?’

  ‘Something about a telephone conversation…’ The writing grew increasingly erratic, until it was little more than a collection of random scribbles. ‘Must’ve been drinking while he wrote it.’

  Steel slapped Logan on the arm. ‘Told you I didn’t need glasses. Who’s “G and Y”?’

  ‘No idea. “A” might be Andy? The big bald bloke?’ Logan tried, and failed, to turn the page with his bagged hands. ‘Little help?’

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’ She was rummaging through another box, pulling out bundles of computer games, still wrapped in shiny plastic. ‘Fancy the new Resident Evil?’

  ‘That would be unethical.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Sergeant, what was I thinking?’ She stood and slipped a copy into his jacket pocket, then stuck a couple more in her handbag. ‘Let’s face it, if Polmont’s nicked them off Malk the Knife, Malky’s no’ exactly going to come round the station asking for his gear back, is he? This stuff’ll sit in evidence for six months then get turfed into the police auction. Or chucked through an industrial wood chipper. It’s win-win.’ She snapped her bag shut. ‘Right, back to the station. We’ll get a warrant, then come back and find this stuff officially.’

  Logan stood for a moment, looking at all the bottles of vodka, wondering if he shouldn’t take a couple into custody while he was at it.

  ‘You coming?’

  ‘Oh…yes.’ He struggled with his jacket pocket, pulling the video game out with his slippery hands, and dumped it back in the box. ‘Already got that one.’

  Steel rolled her eyes. ‘You are such a goody two-shoes.’

  She really had no idea.

  12

  Logan tumbled another handful of dried penne into the pot of boiling water. The ivory shapes looked like little segments of finger-bone in the light from the extractor fan.

  Through in the lounge, the TV was babbling away to itself, the Channel 4 News covering the latest round of scandals from the Scottish Parliament, as Logan had a bash at making tea for a change.

  A little after half six and there was still no sign of Samantha — probably pulling another green shift — but he was going to bloody well impress her when she finally got in. Baked pasta with some sort of sauce and cheese. A thank you for her promising to rush through the DNA samples she’d scraped from under his nails in the little lab back at FHQ.

  He checked the recipe he’d downloaded, then excavated a dust-covered casserole dish from the cupboard. A home-cooked meal, how hard could it be?

  Chop an onion, fry it in olive oil, chuck in a tin of tomatoes, couple tins of tuna, some mixed herbs. Easy. What was all the fuss about?

  Right now Steel was probably breaking back into Steve Polmont’s flat, acting all surprised at the boxroom full of stolen goods. At least Logan didn’t have to worry about his fingerprints being on anything.

  He checked the recipe again, went to the wine rack for the last bottle of red in the house and glugged in about a glassful.

  Move over Gordon Ramsay.

  Should have taken a bottle of that vodka when he’d had the chance. And the video game. Be nice if the job actually came with some perks for a change.

  He let the sauce simmer for a bit, then helped himself to a glass. Chef’s prerogative. It wasn’t as if he was planning on getting hammered, just having a civilized glass of wine. Then another one. And another.

  Bloody Steel. Lecturing him about his attitude, and his drinking. How many times had she turned up at the station hungover and reeking of stale booze? Not to mention helping herself to evidence from Steve Polmont’s flat.

  Hypocrite.

  Logan chucked everything together in the casserole dish, then covered it in a wodge of grated cheddar. Whacked it in the oven.

  Maybe have another glass of wine to celebrate…

  Not every day you cook a five-star meal, is it?

  Might as well finish the bottle. No point letting it go to waste.

  He clunked back into the flat. ‘Sam? You home?’

  No answer.

  ‘Sam?’

  Logan kicked off his shoes, then dumped the bag from Oddbins down on the kitchen table. Two bottles of Shiraz, and a Sauvignon Blanc. He dug out the corkscrew — got to let the wine breathe, right?

  Maybe try a glass, just to check it’s OK.

  He toasted his reflection in the kitchen window and drank.

  Drank some more.

  Pasta bake smelled good.

  He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Maybe have some crisps to keep him going till Samantha got back.

  Logan topped up his wine again. Raised it to his lips. Then swore as the doorbell went.

  Why could she never remember her damn keys?

  He placed his glass carefully on the working surface, then unlocked the flat’s front door and hurried down the communal stairwell. Unlatched the deadbolt and threw the door open. ‘You’d forget your head if it wasn’t…’

  A large man stood on the pavement outside, scarred face pinched into a disfigured scowl.

  Reuben.

  He hefted his thumb over his shoulder at a black BMW, its hazard lights winking on and off in the cold, crisp evening. ‘Mr Mowat wants to see you.’

  Fuck.

  Logan looked down at his own feet. Black socks with a hole in one toe. ‘I’m kinda in the middle of-’

  ‘Now.’

  Logan blinked, the wine making his teeth itch, the mellow buzz turning into an unpleasant fizzing behind his eyes. ‘But-’

  ‘I’m not telling you again.’

  ‘Can I at least put my shoes on?’

  Skeletal trees hunched over a collection of potholes and cracked tarmac, winding through the darkness. The BMW bumped along the rutted track, the occasional grinding noise from under their feet making Reuben grit his teeth. ‘Fuckin’ thing…’

  Logan looked out at the darkened countryside. Two days ago these fields were bathed in the moon’s glow, now there was just the car’s headlights as they headed down the side road overlooking Malk the Knife’s building site, not far from where Logan and Steel had parked on Monday night. Waiting for Steve Polmont to turn up.

  The BMW’s headlights picked out one of those big, ugly Porsche 4x4 things at the end of the lane, its exhaust spiralling out into the cold night air. Reuben stopped, hauled on the handbrake, then killed the engine and the lights.

  Darkness.

  Reuben turned and glowered at Logan. ‘Listen up: you upset Mr Mowat tonight and I’ll tear your cock off and make you eat it. Understand?’

  ‘Why would-’

  ‘You fucking watch yourself, McRae.’

  ‘God’s sake…’ Wanker. Logan popped open his door and stepped out into the overcast night.

  Bloody freezing. Right through the soles of his holey socks. Bastard could at least have let him grab his shoes…

  At least it had stopped raining.

  Logan hobbled through the darkness to the Porsche Cayenne, breath trailing along behind him, then clambered into the passenger seat and clunked the door shut. Shivered.

  ‘Ah, Logan, glad you could make it.’ Wee Hamish Mowat sat hunched behind the wheel, gnarled hands held over the vents. His face was caught in the glow of the dashboard lights — that big hooked nose, the deep crevasse wrinkles, eyes sparkling like something sharp and dangerous at the bottom of a toy box. ‘Will you take a wee dram?’

  ‘Er…yeah. Thanks.’

  The warm interior carried the smell of Old Spice, underlaid with something else. Something sour and sickly.

  Wee Hamish pulled a silver hipflask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid, then passed it over.

  Logan looked at it. ‘Actually, Mr Mowat-’

  ‘It’s all right, Logan, what I have isn’t catching.’ His voice was a gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Sounding tired. ‘And after everything you’ve…helped me with over the last six months, I think you can call me “Hamish”, don’t you?’

 
Logan accepted the flask. Forced a smile. ‘Thank you. Hamish.’

  He wiped the neck and took a swig. Whisky. It started a low fire in his innards, spreading its warmth up through his chest. ‘Good stuff.’

  ‘1974 Ardbeg.’ Wee Hamish took the flask back and knocked some back. ‘Can’t take it with you…’

  They sat in silence for a moment, just the rumble of the engine and the whine of the air vents. Then Wee Hamish pointed through the windscreen at the building site laid out on the fields below. ‘Four hundred houses, just like that. Planning permission for a hotel. Going to have a swimming pool. All legitimate and above board.’

  Logan kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Course, wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for Donald Trump.’ He took another hit of whisky. ‘What do you think, Logan: for it, or against it?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Keeping an open mind? Good. Good. Some say it’s a bad thing, that Trump steamrollered local opposition, then went blubbing to the Scottish Parliament when the planning department said he couldn’t have his golf course. Got them to overturn the decision. Others say it’s a good thing — it shows that Aberdeen’s open for business. Welcomes investment. Is looking to the future…’

  He stared at the hipflask in his hand. ‘The future’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’

  Logan shifted in his seat. ‘We’re pretty sure Malk the Knife’s development’s just one big money-laundering exercise. He’s using it to get a foothold in the North East…’ He trailed off to a halt. Wee Hamish was staring at him.

  ‘Do you play chess, Logan?’

  ‘Er…no. Not really. More of a Grand Theft Auto kind of guy.’

  ‘Shame. We shall have to do something about that.’ He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Mr McLennan is the Black King. He moves his pawns around the board, always pushing forwards. Drugs. Prostitution. Counterfeit merchandise. Then he has his bishops. Moving diagonally, back and forth from Edinburgh. Keeping an eye on the souls of his flock. His knights taking care of the opposition.’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘Do you?’

  Logan wriggled his toes in the warm air of the footwell. ‘It’s no secret Malk the Knife’s pushing in on your territory. We’re getting a huge influx of dodgy goods, forged money. Car theft’s up about three hundred percent. There’s more drugs out there than ever before.’